


The Language of Lemons

by hirayaart



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Gen, Royai - Freeform, riza hawkeye - Freeform, roy mustang - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirayaart/pseuds/hirayaart
Summary: After the Ishval Civil War, W.O. Riza Hawkeye is appointed into Lt. Col. Roy Mustang’s chain of command. Both of them have to learn to navigate the uncharted nature of their relationship as superior and subordinate, steadily treading the fine balance that easily made them...old friends. Each chapter in their new journey is a rule, and it's all prompted by a fresh lemon from the mess hall of Eastern Command.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34





	1. No Questions

_Peace._

Peace is the state of tranquility, and a position of serene. It indicates calm and content, a being in position of little to no disturbance. Peace is the state of mind, allowing for deep breaths and the means to bask under the warm, summer sun of Amestris’ East City. At present, its military headquarters stood in quiet, pristine concrete walls an eerily gentle reminder of a silent, sentient guardian watching over this part of the country. Its highest commanding officer answered directly to one Führer King Bradley who sat at the mother base at the very heart of Central.

 _Peace..._ was the official statement released by the Führer and the upper echelon, to signify the end of war, the completion of a _campaign,_ against a sacred land that so-belonged to Ishvala.

Exactly four months and two days after the Ishval Civil War, Eastern Headquarters, like the rest of Amestris’ centers of command, is now burdened with men and women who are walking the delicate balance between normalcy and being war veterans. In a national address immediately upon the troops’ return, Führer Bradley delivered a statement to acknowledge the difficult task that was asked of the armed forces and its State Alchemists, the latter designated only to use their skills under the most _dire_ nation-threatening circumstances.

_I must take full responsibility that our country was forced to make this difficult choice, and ultimately called upon our men and women in arms, our State Alchemists, and you, our People, who stand as their families and loved ones._

Under the corps of Lieutenant General Charles Grumman, over 7,000 soldiers were sent to serve. Eastern Command took the heaviest casualties, having comprised more than a third of all Amestrian troops deployed to the trenches, including two State Alchemists, then Majors Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strong Arm Alchemist and Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. 

The Flame Alchemist was infamously rumored to be _the most_ powerful out of all of the State's human weapons. Upon his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, he had earned a second nickname, one that made him sick to the stomach-- _Hero of Ishval._

Most of Amestris had lauded his position, _thanked_ him for securing their safety and protection, but Mustang wanted nothing to do with the new pins and medals. He was ridden with shame, and the only thing that kept him steady on his feet at the time of the awarding ceremony was finding his comrade, newly-promoted Major Maes Hughes, who stood in the crowd with a steady jaw and a steely gaze, as if to tell him _Focus, Roy. It’s only a step closer. Focus._

No--one other had kept Mustang from ripping the medal off his uniform and screaming into the crowd like the madman he felt he had become. One whose resolve matched that of Hughes, perhaps could have even overridden it. He had sought her in the crowd, and when he found her, her eyes offered him more strength than he felt he ever deserved. Not after he had dishonored her so, _used_ her only to be on this platform and accepting an _award_ for--for _mass murder--_ brought about by _her_ power. _Her_ permission. 

But it was as if, from that distance between them, she could read the turmoil in his heart, and her brow lowered, her glare sharpened. _Don’t you dare,_ she seemed to say. _Hold it together. Don’t you dare._

So he did. Mustang held himself together with all he had as Lieutenant General Grumman made the final press of the medal onto his coat and patted him once on the shoulder. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant Colonel Mustang,” he had offered solemnly, as if to convey that he understood the weight of the gilt embellishment.

“Thank you, sir!” Mustang had managed, grateful that his voice had come out confident despite himself.

Not two days after the ceremony, Mustang found himself welcoming an unexpected visitor who had come knocking on the door of his newly appointed private office.

 _She_ entered.

And her presence immediately drew him in as he rose from his seat, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his mahogany desk. He watched her as she approached him calmly, boots clicking against the floor and then together as she snapped into a well-practiced salute.

Mustang felt his heart wrench, in the same way it had when they were unceremoniously reunited in the desert. She was a _soldier._ Dog of the military. “You’re still here."

_Into hell..._

_If you so desire._

Was what she said with intense finality.

The pledge on her lips had come off barely above a whisper, but it cut across the room and met his hardened gaze with unmatched determination. This woman had nerve, the same nerve that took not a second too long, not a moment’s bat of an eye as she would stare into the scope of a rifle steady and unbreathing, her own pulse down to inhumane levels of low, to keep the needle on the target and _3...2...1_ \--shot to kill.

_Then follow me._

All of these were just memories, memories still sickeningly vivid, as Mustang tapped his fountain pen idly against a document that was delivered to his office early this morning. 

_Approval of Command: Warrant Officer Riza Hawkeye_

_Hereby Adjutant to Lieutenant Colonel and State Alchemist Roy Mustang_

_Signed: Lieutenant General Charles Grumman_

His eyes ran over her name again, and again. When she had sworn to protect him, he had decided against affirming his own commitment. But perhaps she knew that the full extent of her own was that he was to protect her in turn, and with the same fervor. He wanted nothing more. He would answer to her as much as she was obliged by regulation to answer to him.

Above and beyond the call of duty, he knew he could rely on her, to be his voice of reason. Yes, he would heed. To her, he would answer.

Mustang barely noticed the familiar knock of his now personal adjutant on the other side of his office door. It took him a second longer before he allowed entry.

Hawkeye held the door ajar and looked at him inquisitively, as if she had noticed his delay. “General’s Guard, sir.”

Mustang took in a breath and quickly recollected his wits. Seemed that the Lieutenant General was not one for waiting, not after he had just approved the headcount for Hawkeye into his chain of command, which for him would have been an easy string to pull, but a string nonetheless. It was time to put them to work. 

“Let him in,” he said.

Mustang immediately recognized Captain James Hoffman, Grumman’s distinguished personal guard. He was not much younger than Mustang, and being familiar with him since the Academy, offered a small smile as he approached the superior officer’s desk with a clean envelope tucked under his left arm.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Hoffman snapped into salute. “Orders from the General, for your immediate action, sir.”

“At ease,” Mustang offered and rose steadily to hold out a hand for the envelope. “What about?”

“Classified, sir,” Hoffman said, handing over the document. “I have no visibility.”

Mustang pulled out a single clean sheet of parchment paper and turned it over in his hand. His brow immediately furrowed. “This is blank, Captain,” he said flatly. 

He looked up to find the Hoffman gradually turn white.

Mustang looked down at the parchment again, guessing how much the gears might be turning in the other man’s head as he fought an internal debate about whether he had picked up the correct document or not. 

Mustang held the parchment under the sunlight spilling onto his desk. _What game is this old man playing now,_ he thought, slightly amused.

“This’ll do, Hoffman,” he said suddenly.

“I…”

Mustang looked up at Hoffman again and smirked. “Thanks for this,” he said. “You’re dismissed. Call in my Warrant Officer after you.”

“Yes, sir!” With a final salute, Hoffman turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Just before the door closed, Hawkeye reentered and approached the desk with customary urgency. Still unused to having a second presence in his office, Mustang was acutely aware of the sound of her sure footsteps, the subtle fragrance of her perfume, and her rather soothing energy. He shook his head slightly.

“Sir,” she quipped, her voice breaking its way through her superior’s buzzing thoughts.

“While you’re in the mess hall for lunch today,” Mustang started, still studying the pristine pressed parchment in his hand. “Would you mind bringing up a lemon?”

When Hawkeye failed to respond, he looked up and saw that she seemed to be weighing the seriousness of his request. “A lemon, sir,” she said unsteadily.

“That’s correct.”

If he had anyone to wager with, Mustang would've placed a bet. Something danced in Hawkeye's eyes just now, as if a question almost only to herself. Perhaps it was the effects of having to report to someone new, or rather someone familiar. Maybe it was the fact they were now within the same immediate reporting line, and she was only still beginning to realize how to follow without question.

“Right.” As if realizing that she had let her guard down in front of her commanding officer no less, Hawkeye clicked her heels and puffed her chest. “Will that be all, sir?”

“At ease,” Mustang smiled crookedly. “Was that a moment of doubt just now, Officer?”

Hawkeye seemed to do a double take on her answer before opening her mouth. “I wouldn’t call it doubt, Colonel,” she offered. “I apologize for how that came across.”

“Then what was it?”

Hawkeye swallowed and barely held down the color that was steadily rising from her neck. 

Mustang grinned. “Out with it.”

“Frankly, I’m not used to you ordering me around,” Hawkeye managed.

The lull between them swelled like an invisible balloon and Mustang just stood there dumb struck, blank parchment still in hand, mouth slightly open. And _then_ he laughed.

 _Of course,_ he thought. He had spent the better part of his teenage years in the Hawkeye mansion, and the lady of the house was none other than his now direct subordinate.

“This is hardly appropriate,” Hawkeye said through gritted teeth, watching as her superior bent over in a fit of giggles.

“Miss-- _Officer,”_ Mustang caught himself and waved the parchment that was still in his hand. “You must forgive me.”

 _“Will_ that be all then, Colonel?” came the dry response.

“Yes,” Mustang smiled. “You may go.”

He watched as she turned on her heel to leave, taking with her that barely noticeable fragrance...as she placed a hand on the door knob he called out again.

“Warrant Officer?”

Hawkeye paused before turning only enough to look over her shoulder. Mustang was unsure if she was doing it deliberately, or if this was still part of her internal battle between ‘Mr. Mustang’ and ‘Lieutenant Colonel Mustang,’ not that it mattered to him.

“You’re not having any regrets just yet, are you?” he smiled almost teasingly.

Hawkeye set her jaw, but Mustang recognized the twitch in the corner of her mouth that gave away her amusement, the same twitch she would give him as a teenager whenever he insisted on anything she remotely disapproved of. “You’re still within my threshold, Colonel.”

Mustang grinned. “You’re so kind to me.”

* * *

By 1159, Hawkeye found herself one of the first in line at the mess hall, figuring she would have to return to duty slightly earlier than usual. She felt a light tap on her shoulder as she collected a tray.

“Penny for your thoughts, Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye offered a smile as her near-sister Master Sergeant Rebecca Catalina collected her own tray and slid it after hers on the railings. “A penny and a lemon, Catalina,” she said, maintaining office courtesy with signature dry humor. “How was your morning?”

“The boss has us all running around to organize this year’s joint exercises with Western Command,” Catalina chirped. “I’m really looking forward to it...”

Hawkeye noticed her voice trailed off, almost as if she was conscious about any further excitement towards military activities that simulated war. 

As soon as the girls had met each other at the Academy, they shared an immediate affinity for guns and elected to specialize in rifles and artillery upon completion of First Year. Since then, they were often found at the practice range and in relatively close proximity, to make sure they could provide each other with commentary; although that proved slightly more beneficial for Catalina than it did Hawkeye.

Catalina would keep her ears close to the ground. She used to insist it was to keep tabs on the field and have an inkling of her future in service, but Hawkeye knew full well it was more to pin down the most notable men in the military who had the potential to climb the ranks and seek out an easy-going wife. That was how the girls had eventually caught wind of a certain _Mustang Man._

Catalina had been unsure if Mustang referred to an actual name, or if it was the military nickname donned onto those who had the uncanny ability to climb the ranks unusually fast. They said ‘Mustang is the new Flame Alchemist’, and that only made him more intriguing. As a State Alchemist, he was immediately Major. But between his graduation year and the examination date, he had already climbed as far as First Lieutenant.

For Catalina, the Flame Alchemist was of utmost _romantic_ interest. But for Hawkeye, his new achievement was _horrifying_ news.

By their third year, tensions in Ishval had risen considerably and were constant mentions over the radio comms. It brought further toxicity to the ranks and made Ishvalan recruits the object of racial slurs. When war eventually broke out in their fourth year, Hawkeye was among a select ten called to ground zero. Catalina was left both furious at her own lack of skill and helpless for her friend who had boarded the train the eve upon receiving her transfer papers. Hawkeye, being absorbed with her own grief and anxiety, hardened her resolve to use her time in the desert to track down an old friend, an estranged companion, the most dangerous man in the military--Roy Mustang.

“Tell me more about that lemon!” Catalina grinned, as she and Hawkeye walked shoulder to shoulder to find a table. They settled by a window. “Anything to do with your new assignment to the Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Nothing _but_ ,” Hawkeye smiled back, discreetly pocketing the lemon from her food tray before starting on her cold pasta. “I don’t know what he needs it for, but we should always follow orders.”

Catalina huffed, “Don’t we know,” she said. The two ate in silence a while longer before Catalina spoke again, watching her friend more closely. “Are you growing your hair out?”

Hawkeye raised her eyebrows and held a napkin to her mouth as she straightened up. She brushed the golden strands that had fallen in front of her shoulders and tucked him behind her ear. “It’s not in the way yet, is it?”

“No, no,” Catalina said quickly, her characteristic smile returning to her pretty features. “It’s just about reaching your collar now. It’s a nice look!”

Hawkeye smiled back.

* * *

When Hawkeye let herself back into her superior’s office, he was standing hands-in-pockets and looking out the window. She made a mental note that he had likely skipped lunch that day.

“Your lemon, sir,” she said, barely able to keep a straight face.

Mustang turned and she noticed that he had one of his ignition gloves on. “Would you like to see something cool, Officer?”

Hawkeye tilted her head to one side as she handed over the lemon and her charge began to explain.

“First thing you should keep in mind about the higher ups, is that everything they do is deliberate.” Mustang emptied the cartridge of his fountain pen and poked the silver tip into the lemon, embedding it almost completely. _“Nothing is an accident._ Do you understand?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“What does that parchment look like to you?” Mustang asked, slowly twisting the pen deeper into the lemon, seemingly to squeeze some of the juice into where the ink cartridge was just seconds ago.

Hawkeye took this as permission to step closer to the desk and examine the parchment more closely. When she lifted it with her hands, Mustang made no indication to resist, although she could feel his eyes on her.

“I really can’t be sure, Colonel,” she admitted. “This looks blank.”

Mustang smiled, “That means the General prepared it properly before he sent that to my office.” He finally pulled the pen out of the lemon and scribbled on the complementary envelope. He snapped gloved fingers and used cold flame to dry the envelope where he had scribbled. 

He handed it over. “What does that look like?”

Hawkeye furrowed her brow and looked as closely as she had to the parchment. “Sir,” she said slowly. “I’m really not sure what I should be looking for.”

“Which is why the use of such ‘ink’ is so smart.” Mustang snapped his fingers again, this time to spark a warmer, yellow flame. He ran the flame underneath the focal point of the envelope and Hawkeye raised her brow as words slowly appeared in dull yellow.

_Mission 1._

Hawkeye blinked and allowed a small smile to settle on her lips. “I have to say, Colonel,” she began, almost fondly. “You always did have things down to a science.”

Suddenly feeling sheepish, Mustang snuffed out the spark and replaced the envelope on his desk. “Lemon is acidic enough to weaken paper, but when you apply it on something as thick as parchment the damage is almost invisible to the eye, but the acid is still there,” he rambled. He picked up the ‘blank’ parchment again and began to trace it with another warm flame. “When you hold dried lemon ‘ink’ near a heat source, its acids burn out and turn brown sooner than the rest of the paper does.”

Hawkeye, while already expecting the result, was still entertained by the letters that took form above the Lieutenant Colonel’s little flame. She noticed he was reading as he was going along.

The message was apparently short, initially cryptic, then ultimately clear--or at least from what Hawkeye could read on her superior’s rather comical shift in demeanor. All of a sudden the man looked as though he might fall through the floor.

Hawkeye squared her shoulders in concern, “What is it, sir?”

Mustang’s mouth went agape and he first retracted the document closer to his chest before decidedly handing it over to her.

Hawkeye took the document and read it quickly, seeing as the words began to fade into the rest of the parchment that had picked up the heat.

_5th of March, Dornhan Theater, Central City_

_An invitation for Mister and Missus James Winter_

_All aboard by 1800, East City Station_

_Tom Collins will be served at Landfer Place promptly at 1950_

Hawkeye snapped her eyes back at her superior who had managed to recollect himself and was back to a casual questioning look. 

“Are you done, Officer?”

She gawked, her head barely wrapped around first, that the operation was covert and it was going to take her and her _superior officer_ to Central as _husband and wife;_ second, that she had no idea what the deliberately placed emphasis on ‘all’ and cocktails had to do with any of it. 

Mustang simply gestured for the parchment again, and as soon as she returned it she heard a soft snap and the paper was nothing but ash on his desk.

“This is your first day after all, Officer, so I’ll be a little more understanding.” Mustang rounded his desk and walked calmly past her, collecting his coat from its rack. “Do you have any questions?”

Hawkeye clenched her fists and met his eyes. _Surely he could smell a lie._ She had _a lot_ of questions.

Yet, she was unsure if he was being earnest, or evaluating her ability to adapt to the new demands of her job, to obey without question, to follow orders like a dog, to follow _him_ as she had committed. 

She wondered where Lieutenant Colonel Mustang drew the line of trust, and how she would be made to find out. So at this point, was she going to question, or was she going to obey without?

With her jaw set and boots clicked into place, she said simply, “Shall I pull up by 17:40 at your residence, Colonel?”

Mustang smiled. “Correct,” he said, as if referring to more than one thing.


	2. Two Taps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awfully sorry this took so long! I wanted to make accompanying art for it, which you'll find below or up on my tumblr hirayaart. Hope you like it, and this chapter 😍

_1752_

“Last train for Central City, departing in eight minutes. Last train for Central City, departing in eight minutes.”

Riza released a breath under the weight of her suitcase as the sound of the announcer blared throughout East City’s grandiose train station. She glanced up at the clock on the beams directly above the center of the platform, holding a gloved hand to shade her eyes from the afternoon glare.

The station was its busiest, being the end of the day and the most popular time for evening travelers to depart. The last rays of afternoon sun shone through the high glass ceilings and painted the monumental architecture surrounding the platforms with hues of pink and orange, an aesthetic she often admired ever since first getting on a train in her late teens. As Riza made her way through the crowd, men and women brushed busily past, getting off their trains or boarding new ones, muttering ‘excuse me’s’ as gentlemen held their hats to their chest in customary reverence towards her. She offered gentle smiles and small nods in return before deciding to keep her eyes low. If their behavior was a result of any encouragement, she knew it was because she was dressed so impeccably. 

As lady _Amelia Winter,_ whose husband was a wealthy businessman and jeweler, her travel coat was made of luxurious wool lined with mink at the collar, and dark tones calling attention to her porcelain skin and golden hair that she had pulled neatly into a chignon at the nape of her neck. While she hardly minded her uncharacteristic regalia, she found grievance with her intricately laced Drachman travel boots whose heels were perhaps just half an inch too high for her liking. Although she couldn’t run in them, she thought at least she’d be able to deliver a good kick in the face.

Next to her one of the trains let out a long whistle just as its conductor hopped into the main entry and waved his hat. “All aboard for New Optain!”

Riza watched as a scrawny dark haired teenage boy hauled a duffel over his shoulder and hurried into the coach ahead of the conductor, prompting the older man to smile and shake his head. Riza paused, slightly distracted. If she had any say in it, the boy looked like a younger version of Roy.

She barely realized that Roy had stopped short on the platform next to the fourth train and almost walked into him, most unlady-like.

“Sorry, darling!” he said sincerely, catching her by the elbows before pulling out their train tickets from his coat pocket.

Riza nearly faltered, if it weren’t for the fact that ‘darling’ had rolled off Roy’s tongue so easily. She wondered if it was a result of him having grown around so many sisters, who were respectable hosts and bar women, or if he had simply been exposed to enough plainclothes operations to be accustomed to fully immersing in his personas. She quickly picked up on his example regardless.

“Good evening, sir!”

Riza noticed a conductor, half-hidden within the coach, examining the passes handed to him. He returned the passes and stepped down, “Delighted to have you and the missus with us, Mr. Winter,” he smiled. “Shall I take your bags and lead you to the first class coach?”

“Very kind of you,” Roy grinned, pocketing the tickets and turning to Riza. “After you.”

She squared her jaw, unaccustomed to being ahead of her charge where she would be unable keep an eye on his back. Yet, she found herself following instructions after Roy extended a hand to assist her aboard. Behind them, the conductor eased himself expertly with both suitcases through the narrow coach path. “You’ll have your own private compartment, Mr. Winter,” he said, not the slightest out of breath. “But the rest of the first class coach is open for guests who wish to have tea at any time.”

“Thank you, conductor,” Roy responded, glancing over his shoulder.

Once they arrived at the compartment, the conductor slid the door open and stepped in to place the suitcases on each side of the overhead carriers. Before he left he offered services one more time and went on his way after the customary ‘Please just have your tickets ready.’

Riza breathed a sigh of relief as she eased herself out of her heavy coat and Roy slid the door shut. It was much warmer in the train compared to the approaching chill of Amestris outside.

Another whistle blew accompanied by an “All aboard the last train for Central City!” from the powerful voice of the conductor outside, who was now tolling a hand bell as he walked the platform next to the train.

Riza grimaced as she resisted the urge to massage her left shoulder and instead tried to shake off the tick by smoothing down her satin dress. Thankfully, Roy hadn’t seemed to pick up on her discomfort as he had his back to her, busying himself with folding his coat and tucking it atop his suitcase. “Just in time!” he said, pleased.

Riza wordlessly folded her coat and stared up at her side of the carrier. _Just use your right arm,_ she thought to herself. Unfortunately, she made a poor attempt. 

“Do you need help with that?”

Riza swiveled and clutched her coat. “No, actually I think I’ll just keep it next to me,” she said.

Roy raised an eyebrow and Riza’s heart pounded a little faster when she noticed his eyes take a shot at her left side. “I insist, sir,” she said firmly. “I’m not used to this part of the country where it’s a lot colder. I might need it later.”

He yielded to the finality in her tone, albeit hesitantly. “Okay,” was all he said and sank into his seat across her. Riza did the same.

More passengers shuffled their way through the coach and past their compartment, and Riza took note of how unusually ordinary her surroundings seemed. Just by their door, an older couple paused as they waited for others ahead of them to settle down. The woman turned to her partner and smiled, saying something inaudible but excitedly. The man, likely her husband, responded with a wide grin that made his eyes wrinkle as they almost closed. Riza found herself putting a story together. _Maybe they’re going home...or visiting their grandchildren_ . Before she could think of much more, the couple continued on their way and she realized her gaze trailed after them a little too long. Her eyes settled on the corner of the door as she surmised _ordinary_ , imagined _normal_.

Had it really just been four and a half years since enlisting for the Amestrian military? It certainly felt like more like an entire lifetime. Between the last moment she’d seen Mr. Must—the Lieutenant Colonel, and finding him in the middle of the battlefield, to the day she volunteered to be under his command. She was indeed, very far from ordinary now. 

Or perhaps ordinary was taken away from her the day her father tattooed her back.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Despite the quiet reproach of his voice, Riza almost jumped. She saw him regarding her with a strange look.

“If you’re uncomfortable, I can move to the main coach,” he said.

Riza sat up straighter, eyes brightening, “No, please don’t think that way, sir,” she said quickly. _God, I’m terrible at my job._

She recognized the tone he had used. It was the tone he used any time he would approach her when he was still new to the manor, and it conveyed how unsure he was around her, careful and afraid of her sternness and her command of the house.

Roy had entered the lives of the Hawkeyes not long before Miss Hawkeye lost her mother, and while he had preferred to assume that the remainder of the family held fast to each other in the midst of loss, he instead became acutely aware of how estranged they actually were. He had realized that both Master Berthold and his only daughter had decided, whether unwillingly or not, to cope with grief separately. The Master had buried himself in his work, rarely coming out for anything such that his daughter often had to bring his food to the study. While Miss Hawkeye...at her own tender age had more than enough to occupy herself with. The Hawkeye mansion was magnificent, but only in the way likened to a distant memory, reminiscent of much more colorful days when the bricks weren’t riddled with vines and weathered by storms, when the grass was trimmed and flowers bloomed with Amestris’ native colors, and each room was lit with candlelight and vibrant with music from a Charleston playing out of a phonograph. It was difficult to maintain, especially for a young girl who wasn’t even ten. 

Roy never thought to ask if she had been instructed to maintain the upkeep of the mansion, or if she had taken it upon herself to preserve what memories she had left of her mother. He had ultimately decided that he would have to step carefully between the Master and his daughter for as long as he was under their tutelage.

Even then, Roy had somehow won a semblance of Miss Hawkeye’s camaraderie, at some point calling her by her given name. _Riza._ The first time he’d been permitted to use it was sheer delight.

But a brief one…

The next time he had visited her after having spent years in service, he had been unceremoniously returned to his place, at arm’s length, as _Mr. Mustang._

Like many things, it had left a dent in his soul, and as he watched her from across their luxurious but suffocating compartment, he was sure it had done the same to her.

Just then the train’s whistle finally split the air and it jolted all of its occupants, the _Winters_ included. It was immediately followed by a deafening hiss of steam and the engine began to chug like a perfectly cadenced march of soldiers as it pulled out of East City Station.

They probably mirrored each other’s expressions because before they realized it, Roy and Riza burst out laughing at each other...just like children.

Riza was flushed silly as she fanned herself with her hands, “Scaredy cat!”

“Says you!” Roy snapped back, his boyish grin betraying what would have been a biting remark. “Little Riza and loud noises never mixed.”

Her face immediately fell.

Roy felt his heart drop to his stomach as he swallowed and tore his gaze away from her. “Sorry,” he choked out. “I...I overstepped.”

This was proving much more difficult than he imagined. He’d spent too much time with her to remove her from who she was to him. 

He was her superior officer on paper now, yet he wanted nothing more than to let that go. If only briefly, they could go back, to simpler times in a little old town in the East, where they would make fun of each other and call each other names, lie on the grass and watch the stars.

He visibly grimaced. _Go back, or...go far into the future,_ his thoughts slipped before he realized it. Here they were, poorly playing the part of husband and wife.

“It’s alright, sir,” came her soft but steady reply.

The mandate inked in citrus had been simple. _All aboard by 1800._ Roy had been quicker to decode, out of sheer experience, but Riza eventually learned that ‘all aboard’ referred to being completely in character upon boarding the train. It meant that despite all efforts to get them through this covert operation outfitted as civilians in the middle of a dense crowd, the General was still wary of unwanted eyes looking into the intricacies of their agenda.

Riza decidedly took a breath and tugged at the fingers of her gloves before folding them daintily on her lap. “You and I’d make terrible parents, James,” she finally said.

Roy might as well have turned into a tomato.

“Didn’t think children were up for discussion,” he said honestly, recollecting himself and leaning back against his seat, hands folding casually between his legs.

“I’m just speaking lemons, dear,” she responded flatly.

Roy raised an eyebrow and again caught the slight twitch in his adjutant’s lips.

He was at least pleased that she was catching onto the job quickly, despite the few bumps in the road since first acquiring the fresh lemon. Looking into her eyes now, she seemed to have renewed herself as much as he had, settling nicely into a chess piece of a role that she finally recognized she had to play. The board had been set for them for the next three days, and between two pawns on Grumman’s elaborate chess board, they indeed had very specific roles to play.

“You know you could probably consider that our parents at least married us off with goodwill,” he said loftily, leaning an elbow against the window to watch the dimming Eastern landscapes pass them by in a blur. “That, if you won’t admit you definitely fell for my good looks and wealth.”

To his shock, a leather glove landed squarely on his face. Right on target, of course. 

_What the—!_ He stared at her incredulously and found her suppressing a giggle.

 _“You_ asked for _my_ hand, might I remind you,” she crooned. “Don’t suppose you fell for me?”

He chucked the glove back and it landed at least a foot to the side of her head. She didn’t even flinch. “You could’ve said no,” he smirked.

Riza returned his smile and tossed her other glove to the side to join its pair. Despite herself and the rocky steps with which they started their trip, she invited the change of energy in the compartment and decided to take the opportunity to practice. She raised a knuckle to the glass window…

And tapped it twice.

Roy watched her carefully and waited for her to restart the conversation.

“So, tell me,” she began. “Do you travel this way often?”

_Code._

“Only when your father calls me to do his business,” he replied. That wasn’t too far from the truth, really.

“Must be an inconvenience to be pulled out of your office on such short notice, no?”

“Not when he allows me to take my wife,” Roy smiled.

Riza rolled her eyes.

“Last time I was on a trip wasn’t as fun,” he continued. “I was with the secretary. You’ve met Jeremy, haven’t you?”

_James Hoffman._

“Hardly. You always shoo me out of your office whenever he comes over,” Riza played a pout on her lips. “Always discussing ‘the business of men.’”

“Please forgive me,” Roy said. “How about I loop you in more of my decisions in the future?”

Riza raised her eyebrows.

“I’d really value your input. You would bring...how shall I say,” Roy tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking deep into Riza’s amber regard. “Fresh perspective.”

_Be my eyes from outside, while not many people know who you are to me._

Riza’s smile grew wider. “Anything to grow the business,” she said sweetly.

“Amelia,” Roy said, eyes glinting, “Now that we’re married, my empire is yours. And I’m going to need all your help to ensure it’s sustainable for many, _many_ years to come. Do you understand?”

“Of course, darling.”

And she did not falter this time.

* * *

By the time they stepped onto the platform of Central City station, it was dusk. Riza again found the clock above the middle train, as all clocks across Amestris’ largest stations should be.

_1930_

Their train’s engine released a gust of steam, as if the machine was sighing in relief after a long day of routine travel. Riza smiled and shook her head at how she seemed to still enjoy ‘humanizing’ things, as she had always done when she was much younger.

Suitcase in hand, she followed Roy out and onto the curbside, where he started waving an arm to flag down a taxi. Riza rolled her eyes and marched up next to him, ungloved one of her hands and blew a sharp ear-piercing whistle with two bare fingers.

Almost immediately a waiting taxi’s headlights lit up from down the road and pulled over in front of them. Riza turned to look at Roy, who again was staring at her disbelievingly.

“Who taught you how to whistle like _that?”_

“Oh, James, now you’re just being petty,” Riza scoffed just as the driver stepped out and came around.

“Just these two, sir and madame?” he said, gesturing for the suitcases.

Roy shook his head and blinked at the driver. “Ah—yes,” he managed and held the door open for Riza. He watched her as she climbed in and immediately scooted to the other side, giving him room to come through the same door. He shook his head again.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked as soon as he was locked in, regarding his passengers through the rear view mirror.

“Landfer Place, 5th Avenue,” Roy quipped, adjusting in his seat. “Is that far from here?”

The driver shrugged, “At this time, about 10 minutes away.”

“Excellent.”

And they drove off.

The ride through the city was, at least for Riza, nothing short of awe spiring. Unlike Roy, who had grown up in Central in the middle of elitist patrons who frequented glasses of red wines and whiskeys, she was unaccustomed to city sights. She watched as the icons of Amestrian design stood tall over lamplit cobblestone streets. Other cars zoomed past in the opposite direction, tooting their horns at hard headed pedestrians that insisted on ignoring the designated crossways. Very little street vendors were in sight, at least one thing that Riza thought stood in stark contrast to the East Area in which she spent most of her life. To her trained eye, everything about Central seemed planned out with painstaking detail, every commercial establishment was properly numbered and addressed, lighted by marquees if not bright, contemporary gas lamps bolted to the walls. Street signs were laden generously along the rues, painted customarily in forest green and fluorescent lettering. No building was left completely dark, even at a time when most of the country would be turning in for bed. Instead, ambient lighting kissed the windowsills of every residential, every bar and every restaurant, reminding each other that Central would never sleep, not for anything, not for anyone.

Riza turned to Roy who was just snapping his State issue pocket watch closed. He seemed deep in thought.

“Do you remember when you left for your degree and first teased me with marriage?”

Roy maintained his posture against the seat but let his eyes slide to catch hers. He smiled curiously.

“You gave me your address in Central,” Riza continued, humor slipping into her tone. 

_Madame Christmas’ bar._

“Yet you never called,” he said. “Did you not miss me even for a moon?”

“You came back,” Riza offered wistfully.

Roy looked at her completely now, almost hopefully, before she continued with the same dry humor he’d always known her for.

“You know, just as I was enjoying your absence.”

Roy coughed and laughed, “Scathing, to be coming from my _wife!”_ and barely caught the reflection of the amused look their driver had on his face. “Enjoying our little trip together, are you?”

Riza shrugged, “Well, seeing as I’m _really_ only here as your glorified assistant, I need my husband to step in as entertainment.”

“Darling, you know I’d step in as your personal entertainment _any time_ you ask.”

She frowned as she caught the naughty look in his eyes. Scandalized, she grabbed her mink and whipped its tail towards him, eliciting another boyish bout of laughter.

Landfer Place was impossible to miss, and one would be able infer it from ten meters away. At least ten storeys of granite were framed lavishly with gold pillars and fleurs, accentuated by the warm tones of ground lights surrounding the perimeter. Beneath two extravagantly large outdoor ceiling lights, the inclined driveway demanded attention and muted what was supposed to be Amestris’ proud main road of 5th Avenue. Riza had never in her life seen anything more exquisite, and she wondered if by being associated with Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, she would eventually frequent places like this more often.

He belonged into this world of contemporaries, orphaned into it, but molded to fit perfectly in. To unassuming eyes, Roy Mustang was a physical manifestation of the dreams and aspirations upon which Central City’s riches were built. And he walked and talked like he knew.

Whereas Riza Hawkeye was of a world forgotten. Perhaps by blood, being who she was and the families she could be traced to, she would’ve been associated with an older wealth, an older elite, a fading glory that went along with her devastatingly aging estate in the far reaches of the East. She had long since shunned that part of her enough to feel genuinely disassociated from the world in which she found herself this evening. Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t even noticed the taxi come to a stop and the door had opened to reveal Roy’s outstretched hand, beckoning her to come down.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Riza nodded quickly and accepted his hand. She heard her heels click against the driveway stone, as if the boots themselves felt the need to announce her presence. Roy gently ushered her by the waist as a bellboy trotted up to the taxi and collected their suitcases.

Roy customarily settled the meter with the driver and bid him thanks before turning to the bellboy.

“Good evening, werter Herr, gnä' Frau,” the young man smiled, “May I assist you?”

“Yes, please,” Roy said kindly and watched as the suitcases were lifted onto a trolley. He turned to Riza and offered his arm, which she took, more to steady herself than anything.

They walked leisurely into the lobby and were greeted by another string of traditional Amestrian salutations. Riza was unsure whether to be impressed or amused. 

The accompanying sounds that greeted her took her breath away, and just for a moment, she might’ve overlooked who she was and why she was there. Music played from a three-person assemblage of a bassist, a pianist and a snare drummer, their refrain bouncing off the immaculate vastness of the marble floors that stretched on either side of her to hallways that led to ballrooms and diners and suites _—_ all for the brand of grandeur. The centerpiece of Landfer Place was a colossal structure of a floral vessel, richly upholstered with indoor greens, star flowers and lilies, orchids and hydrangeas all in full bloom that seemed to form a burst of flora that almost reached the dripping diamonds hanging directly above them from a glorious sparkling chandelier.

So _this_ was the world of the fictional Amelia Winter.

“Good evening, werter Herr,” said a handsomely uniformed receptionist as soon as they approached the counter. “Are you checking in?”

“Yes, we are,” Roy said and fished out another set of documents from his coat. _Fake identification._

“Reservations under James Winter, if you please.”

The receptionist received the documents with both hands and verified the papers. “Certainly, Mr. Winter! Let me first make sure your room is ready. As you understand it isn’t our usual check-in hour.”

Roy cleared his throat and tapped Riza twice on the small of her back.

She immediately took the cue and yawned daintily, wrapping her arms around Roy’s to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Oh my!” The receptionist quickly picked up the phone and put it to his ear. “I’m terribly sorry. Gnä' Frau must be tired from travelling.”

Roy sighed and rested a cheek on Riza’s head, “I’d appreciate it if you could find us a room at once, you understand.”

“Absolutely, sir,” said the now flustered receptionist. “Please give me a moment and I’ll have a word upfront with housekeeping right now.”

Roy straightened up, although careful not to jostle the lady on his arm as the receptionist moved into the backroom. “Thanks for catching that,” he said quietly.

“We’re running after cocktails, aren’t we?” Riza replied, amusement again weaving into voice. “We still have about nine minutes.”

Despite her act, she truly did however feel weary, her left shoulder growing more and more stiff that even when she straightened up herself, she unconsciously gripped Roy’s arm a little tighter.

He shot her an urgent look, “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Roy scowled, “Are you hurt?”

 _What in the world?!_ Riza met his glare with her own, unsure how he was able to even deduce that from a squeeze on his arm. “I’m _fine,_ James, please,” she said as her eyes recognized the same receptionist returning with papers in his hand.

“Mr. Winter, I’m delighted to announce that your suite is ready,” he smiled, stopping in perfect poise behind the counter and laying out the papers between them. “Have your suitcases been taken by the bellboy?”

“Yes, your staff has kindly taken care of them,” Roy responded. “Should I sign something?”

“Right here, Mr. Winter,” the receptionist handed him an elegant gold-tipped fountain pen. “You’ll find the stipulations on this page, and the incidentals over here.”

Roy listened as the receptionist took a few more seconds to explain the intricacies to him, before finishing with a flourish, “I’ll be right with you. Let me just notify the bellboy to which suite he has to deliver your belongings.”

Riza stepped closer to Roy as soon as the receptionist was again out of earshot and preoccupied with the bellboy. She cleared her throat.

“A one, _single_ suite?”

Roy paused and rubbed his temples, “I know, I know, I’ll just...I don’t know what the old man was thinking, he must’ve forgotten I wasn’t sharing with the secretary today. It’s usually a twin bed occupancy, don’t worry about it.”

She was hardly convinced. “And if that _isn’t_ the case?”

Roy saw the receptionist rushing over to them again from the corner of his eye and he looked down at his adjutant in earnest, “I’m really sorry, but can you wait until we get to the room to yell at me?”

Riza huffed and stepped back, heart pounding in her ears and very much _dreading_ the off-chance she might have to spend the next couple nights with her. _Superior. Officer._

“Mr. Winter, you’ll be in presidential suite 921,” the receptionist said, holding out a velveteen cushion to which two keys were clipped. “Housekeeping has also informed me that our complementary Tom Collins have already been delivered to your room.”

Roy and Riza looked at each other knowingly.

_Tom Collins, a delicate and unassuming blend of gin, lemon juice, sugar, and carbonated water. First memorialized in writing in 1876._

Surely, they were about to receive further instructions from the General.

“We’ll be well from here, chap,” Roy said, taking the keys. “Thanks for your quick action.”

“Good night, Mr. Winters,” the receptionist responded. “And enjoy your stay with us at Landfer.”

* * *

There aren’t too many ways to describe luxury, but perhaps one could attempt how it made them feel.

The suite was well-lighted when they entered and Roy held the door ajar for Riza to walk in ahead. The hues were warm and ambient—and well, if he was honest with himself—nothing short of romantic, and clearly designed for a businessman and his extravagant wife. Everything was thoughtfully placed to provide a muse for affluence, carpeted flooring with purposefully dulled gilt embroidery, fresh flowers at almost every corner where there was a window, and a very distinct linen fragrance that permeated the air and Roy surmised was patented specifically for Landfer. 

A large sofa stretched in the center of the room, right across a low glass table atop which sat two glasses of Tom Collins and a clean sheet of paper. The in-room bar was only a few paces across, and was larger than most in-room bars that he’d seen on similar occasions. _The Landfer did not hold back._ He walked mindlessly towards the bar and picked up the wine featured for the night.

_Chateau Haut Brion 1902, Bordeaux Rouge._

“Colonel.”

Roy spun around to see Riza standing by the bedroom door and twisting her mink uneasily in her hands. His own expression betrayed in slightest that he was disappointed she had reverted to regulation so quickly. “What is it?”

“It’s a king bed,” she croaked.

Roy suppressed a grumble, his own exhaustion creeping into his bones. “I’ll take the couch, Hawkeye, I really don’t mind.”

The way she took a step back made him pause and wonder if his response had come out more impatient than usual. But before he could ponder over that any longer, Riza simply nodded and muttered a quick ‘thank you, sir,’ before retreating again into the bedroom.

Roy sighed and walked over to study the blank sheet of paper sitting next to the drinks. He took a quick whiff and confirmed that it smelled like lemon. He started to pull out an ignition glove from his pocket.

“Would you prefer I iron that for you?”

Roy looked over his shoulder and saw her by the door frame again, having shed her travel coat and left on her satin dress. There was something about her in that moment that softened his eyes and he shook his head. “Why don’t you go ahead and freshen up?” he said gently. “I’ll be alright here.”

He watched her swallow and nod before closing the door after her. He was finally alone.

One snap, and he trailed a familiar flame beneath the paper in his hand.

_Hope you don’t mind, young punk._

_I was just thinking about what a lovely First Lady my granddaughter would be._

His eyes flashed and before he even realized what he was doing, Roy _incinerated_ the damn thing—“For Pete’s sake!” he hissed, rubbing his free hand over his face. _What a joker._

He shook his head, an exasperated smile finding its way on his lips as he removed his glove and tossed it on the couch. Not long after the awarding ceremony officiating his rank as Lieutenant Colonel, Roy had sat down with General Grumman for a game of chess. He had only meant to consult the older man for his thoughts about putting together his own chain of command, although it required special approvals and, to Roy’s disdain, a lot of paperwork depending on the number of men he needed. However the General wasn’t one to be kept in the dark, and immediately inquired as to whom Roy had taken particular interest. His answer apparently proved nothing short of pleasing, and transfer papers for Warrant Officer Riza Hawkeye had soon been arranged.

Roy walked to the bedroom door and knocked. “Hawkeye?” 

He tried again to make absolutely sure, following it up with, “Hawkeye, can I come in?”

When he still didn’t receive a response, Roy carefully opened the door and peered inside. That was when he heard the shower coming from inside the bathroom. He crossed the bedroom and knocked a little louder on the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Hawkeye,” he called out.

He heard the flow of water quiet down before her voice echoed through.

“Something you need, sir?”

“Just realized we haven’t had supper, and I was about to call in-room dining for us.”

“Oh!”

He waited a few moments and leaned his head against the door.

“I, uh…” her voice echoed again.

“No, you’re not allowed to say you’re not hungry, and that’s an order,” Roy said bluntly.

“Right…”

He smirked, pleased.

“Choose for me, sir.”

 _Oh, that’s fair._ Roy shrugged and responded with an ‘okay’ before moving back to the receiving room of the suite. 

His subconscious began to sift through the pockets of information he had from his childhood with young Riza Hawkeye—her dietary preferences, favorites, and especially the no-go’s. He barely realized he was smiling to himself as he picked up the in-room dining menu and ran a finger over the options before deciding on a tomato pasta and pumpkin soup, recalling distinctly that after a long day at the market and preparing meals, Riza took time and care to make herself a simple pasta and any accompanying vegetable soup, _to soothe the tired soul,_ she would say shyly.

After placing the order he took a few moments to stand by the phone, one hand still on the receiver and the other in his pocket. He felt like he hadn’t really had time to be left alone with his thoughts since leaving command earlier that afternoon to prepare for travel. He looked back towards the closed bedroom door, his mind drifting towards the way Riza had stood there only recently. It was as if he’d just noticed how much of a woman she’d grown into since they were children. Sure, after Ishval he had done her bidding and spent such close proximity to her in order to, she said, _cleanse her back._ But for most of that time he had literally kept his eyes only so focused on what had to be done, as it pained him enough having to hear her fail to furtively suppress her screams, and all the more wounded him having to help her dry her tears.

Having her come into his office to offer her allegiance came as nothing less than a shock to him. He had convinced himself that he was ruthless, undeserving, and unforgivable. Nothing about her offer made sense at the time, except when he dared look into her eyes and read the soul that she was allowing him to glimpse into. _Let me protect you._

And it only made sense then.

In the image that she’d just left him with, standing by the doorway with hair down and barefoot in a charming satin dress that he’d taken the liberty to pick up himself—in the way that she fit into this palatial suite that had probably seen many endearing moments between its occupants, becoming a patron of such a splendid place as the Landfer and looking at him with almost affectionate familiarity—Roy wondered if he even deserved a small percentage of that. If she realized that by becoming his ally, his personal guard, his aide, that she would be forced into roles she had to perform in the line of duty. He sombered, and again felt that he had only made her uncomfortable. Perhaps he’d attempt a poor excuse to have them transferred to a suite that had an adjoining room.

By the time Riza emerged from the bedroom again, she had changed into a night robe over her sleepwear and was towel drying her hair. She found Roy completely absorbed by whatever he was writing into his notebook, one that she knew most State Alchemists carried with them as part of a research mandate.

“You can use the bath, Colonel,” she interrupted carefully, not wanting to startle him.

Roy looked up from his work and seemed to take a few seconds to register what she’d just said. “Oh,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

He rose from the couch and massaged the back of his neck.

“Did the General say anything of note?”

Roy turned beet red and seemingly tried to avoid her gaze, much to her bemusement. “No, aah—no. He did not,” he stammered. “Classified, Officer. Perhaps some other time.”

Riza tilted her head as Roy offered a small smile and brushed past her to collect his suitcase from the bedroom. She watched quietly as he came back out and began to reorganize his belongings on the couch.

It was almost surreal to her. The motions he made reminded her of the first night he spent at the mansion, his then lanky body stooped over his bed and laid out his clothes side by side next to his open trunk. At the time she had offered to help, as she’d been taught in order to perform her responsibilities as a good hostess. Roy on the other hand, seemed almost unaccustomed to being offered assistance, being the only gentleman in his family and often obliged to provide abettance himself. 

Now, for the first time, it dawned on her how much larger he had become after all those years following their unprecedented separation. His body had grown both with age and regimental military training, his shoulders had become broad, his arms firm, and his hands veined. He looked so... _different._ Handsome, even, although that was already evident in his youth. She began to wonder if he’d had any romantic interest of late, and immediately surmised it impossible that he wouldn’t have. 

“What?”

She flushed and straightened up as she realized she’d been staring long enough for him to catch her. “Just lost in thought,” she said quickly.

To her relief their doorbell chimed followed by a man’s voice coming from the other side of the door, “Room service!”

Roy dropped the sleepwear he had just procured from his suitcase and crossed the room to let the waitstaff in.

“Good evening, Mr. Winter!”

“Hello.”

“You ordered a tomato pasta to share, as well as a pumpkin soup?”

“That’s correct,” Roy smiled, completely missing Riza’s brightened expression. He stepped aside as the serviceman wheeled in the dining cart. He nodded a polite ‘good evening, missus’ to Riza and began to set up the cart into a table.

“The bread and white wine are complements of the house, Mr. Winter,” the man explained, running a hand down the bottle. “Would you like me to open this for you?”

One look at Riza gave him the answer and he smiled and shook his head, “We’ll be alright,” he said. “Thank you.”

The serviceman nodded and asked for a signature before leaving.

Roy walked over to recollect his sleepwear before turning to Riza, “Eat ahead, please, or your soup will get cold,” he said kindly. “I’ll be right with you.”

Before she could protest, he walked past her and disappeared into the bathroom.

She sighed as she made her way to the couch and sank into it, propping up her legs so that she could lean on her right side against the arm rest. Her eyes travelled first to the alchemical notebook and she debated on whether to attempt reading the contents Roy had left exposed. She was just able to make out two alchemical arrays before averting her eyes and shaking her head vigorously. Alchemists were notoriously protective of their research, and even as she visibly grimaced at the thought of her being a notebook herself, she ultimately decided that anything else her superior was working on now was no longer her business.

When Roy returned, Riza was halfway through the pumpkin soup. 

“Did right by you?” he asked cheerfully

She offered him a relaxed smile, “Thank you.”

He settled down next to her and started to help himself to some pasta. 

“I never asked,” he started, “Have you been to Central before?”

Riza nodded, “Probably once or twice with my parents, but too far back for me to remember.”

 _So it was before we even met,_ he thought. “What do you think of it so far?”

“It’s very...metropolitan,” she said, and with a small laugh added, “suits you.”

“What are you getting at, this time?” Roy grinned.

Riza finished her soup and reached for a piece of bread, “You always behaved like a city boy, is all I meant.”

“Are you still not over that _one time_ I didn’t know how to identify a ripe mango?”

She burst out laughing and Roy relished in how good it actually made him feel. 

“Pasta?” he offered.

Riza took a breath and nodded, “Do you remember how that even came about?”

“How could I forget?” came his mock hurt reply, as he carefully plated a serving of dinner for her. “I was trying to be helpful,” he added, handing over the plate.

“I appreciated that,” Riza smiled. “But you had such an awfully priceless face on when father tasted them.”

“You _knew_ they weren’t ripe yet and you left me to his mercy! How was I supposed to know that just because it’s yellow doesn’t mean it isn’t ripe?”

She laughed again, cheeks tinting in an alluring shade of pink, and for a moment both of them felt as if they’d been transported back to a time when they were also on a sofa, although a much older and rickety one, shushing each other over poor jokes and childish banter and giggling at silly things that Roy had drawn into his workbook.

Unbeknownst to either of them, they felt as if the other could stay in their company for as long as they wanted, and they’d be more than content for things to be that way for hours. It reminded Roy of nights in his corner of the mansion’s library. After Riza would bring him tea and biscuits, she would select a book on fables and sit at the round table with him, reading until she felt like turning in. For Riza, this moment reminded her of rainy afternoons by the fire, for times when they were lucky enough to have the mansion to themselves and her father had business to attend to in town. Roy would tell her funny stories about city life, his many sisters and the kind of trouble he and Vanessa would get themselves into for silly things such as attempting to mix drinks at the bar.

Riza couldn’t bear to bring herself to break the comfortable silence they had finally settled into, and she watched Roy as he himself seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, a small crooked smile across his attractive features, glowing under the lamplight and the shadows of his own, boyishly unkempt hair. She took a breath and almost chuckled.

“There’s a spare blanket in the closet,” she said finally. “Shall I get it for you?”

Roy blinked. “No, I’ll go—”

But Riza had already set down her plate and walked off. Roy smiled and shook his head again, and decided to busy himself with dismantling the makeshift table and returning it into a dining cart so he could put the dishes away. Riza returned with a freshly pressed blanket in her arms and draped it on the armrest of the couch.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said genuinely. “I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Roy looked back at her, heart sinking only slightly that their evening had come to a conclusion. “Sure,” he said hesitantly. “It’s been a long day.”

Riza nodded and glanced at the door, “I’ll keep it open, in case you need to use the lavatory middle of the night.”

“Appreciate it.”

There was only a split second’s hesitation between them before Riza straightened up again and offered him a ‘good night.’

Roy watched silently—wishfully—as she disappeared behind the bedroom door, keeping it slightly ajar before she turned out the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks for proofreading this @firewoodfigs!

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I'm not sure what exactly this is but it was fun to write so I hope y'all had fun reading it, too 😂 let me know! Also, stay safe, wherever you are 💕


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